


Qanat

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-10
Updated: 2006-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skin and flesh and bone and memories -- this is what a man is made of. Coda to "Skin."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Qanat

He wakes Sam every half hour.

"Dude, seriously, what the hell?" It's the third time, and Sam is glaring at him with shadowed eyes, the bruises on his face and neck standing out in the afternoon sunlight.

"Concussion," Dean replies. "You get yourself whacked over the head, that's the way it's got to be."

Sam looks like he wants to protest, but he only says, "Twice."

"Twice what?"

"Whacked over the head twice," Sam explains. He yawns and tries to stretch, rolling his shoulders and jamming his feet against the floor of the car. "Shapeshifter-as-you on the street with the tire iron, and shapeshifter-as-Becky in the living room with the beer bottle."

Glancing at him, Dean says, "It's a good thing you have a thick skull."

"Very funny." Sam closes his eyes, shifts around in the seat until he's curled awkwardly against the door, and falls asleep again.

Dean lets him. He taps his fingers idly on the steering wheel, thinks about turning on the radio but decides against it. Sam isn't the only one with a bitch of a headache.

They're driving east, away from the sun, away from St. Louis. Dean checks the rear-view mirror every few minutes, half-expecting the highway patrol to come roaring up with sirens blaring and lights flashing, but there isn't a cop in sight.

~

Dean was sixteen the summer they lived in southern California. He hated L.A. He hated the heat, he hated the smog, he hated the Dodgers. He hated the girls on the beach in their five-hundred-dollar bikinis who wouldn't even glance at a guy who didn't drive a Mercedes. He hated the palm trees and plastic smiles and endless asphalt.

Most of all, he hated the sewers.

Eight people missing, vanished right off the streets, no trace of foul play. Dad knew something was up but didn't care to share the details. He just gave Dean a flashlight, a handgun, a walkie-talkie, a map from the city utilities department, and said, "You're looking for anything out of the ordinary."

Dean didn't bother pointing out that he hardly knew what the hell was ordinary in a Los Angeles sewer.

He took the flashlight and the gun and the map and slipped into a manhole a few blocks from their apartment, and he didn't let himself flinch when Dad dropped the steel cover back in place above him.

Rats the size of dogs. Sludge that seeped through his shoes. Slime dripping from the ceiling. Sudden spurts of water bursting out of pipes. No sense of direction, no sense of time, no sense that there were millions of people living and breathing in the sunlight overhead.

That's what was ordinary in the Los Angeles sewers.

Every fifteen minutes or so Dad's voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, asking for Dean's position and status. The sound echoed off the filthy walls and startled armies of cockroaches into motion just beyond the reach of his flashlight.

By the time Dean found the bodies, he was so sick of the fucking sewers it was a relief to have something to report.

"Dad? I found something."

Static, noise, garbled nonsense. Then: "What's your position?"

Dean fumbled with the map and flashlight, described his location as best he could. "I think they're all here," he said. The light wasn't strong enough to reach all the way down the tunnel, but he saw at least six of them, strung up by their arms to the thick pipes that lined the ceiling, dull reddish-brown and unmoving.

"Dead?" Dad's voice was faint and scratchy.

"Yeah. They, uh--" He swallowed, forced himself to breathe through his mouth. "They don't have any skin. Dad, what are we--"

"Hold your position. I'll be right there."

Static again. Dean scowled at the walkie-talkie and tucked it back into his pocket. He paced for a few minutes, splashing through the foul water at the bottom of the tunnel, sweeping his flashlight back and forth. He tried not to look at the bodies, but he couldn't help himself. Exposed muscle, staring eyes, mangled faces: they didn't even look human. A fat brown rat was scurrying along the top of the pipe, climbing over the ropes and pausing to sniff every few feet, its black eyes glinting. Dean followed it with the beam of his flashlight until it dropped down onto the shoulder of one of the bodies.

He turned away and wished Dad would hurry the fuck up and get there.

~

A couple of hours after dark Dean pulls off the interstate and into a Denny's parking lot. Sam wakes as soon as the car stops.

"Hungry?"

Sam makes a face and rubs his stomach. "Not really."

"Well, I am." Dean pushes the car door open and climbs out. The cold air is a shock; he shivers and rubs his arms, watches his breath cloud in short bursts before him.

He expects Sam to stay in the car and go back to sleep, but Sam's door creaks open and he follows Dean into the restaurant. A woman named Dot scowls at them from behind the register; her hair is frizzy and her ankles are swollen and she acts like a table in the non-smoking section is the most unreasonable request she's heard all day.

After she slaps the menus down and wanders away, Dean slides into the booth and says, "So how long did it take you?"

Sam frowns. "To do what?"

"Figure out that freak wasn't me."

Sam looks surprised by the question, but he answers, "I knew right away."

Dean raises an eyebrow and smirks in disbelief. "Right away?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Why?"

"I thought you said he could--" Dean searches for the words Sam had used when they were tied up in that sewer. "Download my thoughts. Or whatever."

"Something like that." Sam shrugs, his expression thoughtful. "He must've had some psychic ability in addition to the shapeshifting. That would explain his MO, how he was able to pretend to be his victim's loved ones."

Dean waves his hand dismissively. "Yeah, obviously. But didn't he try to convince you that he was me? What did he say? Did you test him?"

Sam hesitates before answering. "Of course I did," he says finally, not looking at Dean, and there's something sharp in his voice, something jagged and unexpected. "What do you care what he said, anyway? He didn't do a very good job of it, and now he's dead. It's done." Before Dean can reply, Sam slides out of the booth. "I'll be back."

Dean watches Sam weave through the tables toward the men's room. It's a while after dinnertime and the place is nearly empty, but Dot doesn't seem like she's in any hurry to bring the coffee pot their way. Dean flashes her a smile and waves her over; she looks at him flatly and doesn't move.

_He didn't just look like you, he _was_ you._

That's what Sam had said, struggling out of unconsciousness -- the first time, the thick-headed dumbass -- his voice filled with confusion and puzzlement. Dean wonders just how the hell you're supposed to test somebody who has access to all the memories you're testing. _What's my favorite color? Which gun do I like better: the Remington or the Glock? What's that word you always used to use to beat Pastor Jim at Scrabble? What was the name of that friend of yours who dared you to eat gummie bears until you made yourself sick?_ It's not exactly a problem Dad trained them to deal with.

Dean unwraps his silverware from the paper napkin and begins fiddling with it, trying to balance the three pieces in a teepee on the tabletop.

The stupid, pointless things they know about each other could fill an encyclopedia, but none of it does much good if the bad guys know them too.

Either Sam's fallen in or his concussion has him feeling a lot sicker than he's been letting on.

_Or he was becoming you._

The silverware falls to the table with a loud clatter, and across the room Dot pushes away from the counter, finally moving toward Dean with glacial slowness.

He just wishes Sam would tell him how the hell he knew.

~

When Dean was fourteen, Sam and some of his idiot friends got lost in an abandoned mine a few miles away from the elementary school.

Sam was supposed to come home right after school. That was one rule that never changed, one rule they knew better than to disobey, but they were living in a shitty, dust-filled town in Nevada where all the playgrounds were filled with broken glass and used condoms and there weren't even any trees to climb. Short of watching lizards skitter around between rocks and tumbleweed, there wasn't much to do for entertainment.

Dean should have noticed that Sam didn't come home on time. He would have noticed, too, except that Mr. Griffin, the drunk old guy who lived in the trailer next to theirs, had told Dean that he could have the broken-down outboard motor that had been sitting in his yard for more years than he cared to remember. The wooden boat it had once been attached to had crumbled away to dust and the metal was rusted, fused together in some places, but it wasn't missing anything vital and Dean was certain he could get it running again. He dragged it over to their side of the postage-stamp yard, etching a long gouge in the packed dirt and dead grass, and every day after school he crouched in the shade of the trailer and went to work with Dad's tools, tinkering and testing and slowly coaxing the motor parts to move again. Dad didn't seem to care as long as Dean still did his chores and his practice, and most days Sammy would come home and plop down next to Dean, chattering about his day or his teachers or his friends, a steady stream of kid talk Dean listened to with half an ear.

He should have noticed that Sammy didn't come home on time, but he didn't even glance up from the motor until the sun slipped over the mountains and suddenly his light was gone.

At first he thought that Sammy was probably just inside watching TV, but the trailer was empty and the clock on the wall said it was half past five.

School had been out for two hours. Sammy was nowhere around.

And Dean _knew_.

He didn't hesitate. He grabbed a gun and a flashlight and a coil of rope, and he sprinted out of the trailer without stopping to think. The door slammed shut behind him and his sneakers pounded on the cracked pavement in the trailer park. He ran to the mine without pausing, without even letting himself consider that he could be wrong.

It wasn't until afterward -- after he'd stood at the entrance of the mine with his lungs burning and his heart pounding so hard he wanted to be sick, after his voice had echoed through the mine and he'd bruised his knees taking a tumble over some broken-up tracks, after he'd dragged Sammy and his friends out of the maze of crooked and caved-in tunnels, dirty and squinting but no worse for wear -- it wasn't until afterward that Dean began to think about why'd he'd been so sure. He remembered Sammy looking for new batteries for his flashlight, asking Dad about tommy-knockers and hill spirits, checking out history books from the school library, drawing silly treasure maps and whispering in a tight huddle with his friends.

It was obvious, in retrospect. Any moron could have figured it out.

He dispatched Sammy's friends to their respective homes, threatening to kick their asses if they ever did anything so stupid again, and he and Sam trudged back to the trailer park. It was starting to get dark; a cool wind rose over the desert, chilling Dean through his sweaty shirt and dusting sand across the road.

"Don't tell Dad," Dean said. The gun and the flashlight were tucked in his pockets, the unused rope slung over his shoulder, but he felt naked and empty-handed.

Sammy kicked at the pavement. "We weren't doing anything wrong."

"Yeah, except being a fucking moron."

"You're not allowed to cuss."

"Whatever." They came to the door of the trailer; Dean had left it unlocked when he rushed out, but thankfully Dad wasn't home yet. "Just don't tell Dad, or he'll know how stupid you really are."

Sammy agreed grudgingly. Dean could tell he didn't think it was a big deal, but Dean knew who Dad would blame.

Dean put the gun and flashlight away, stashed the rope back with Dad's gear. He wasn't sure when Dad would get home -- he'd gone over to Carson City to talk to a preacher about an exorcism -- but he started going through the cupboards for something to make for dinner. Tomato soup, grilled cheese, frozen peas. Sammy would complain because he hated peas, but Dean wasn't really in the mood to care.

"How'd you know where we were?" Sammy was sitting on the couch, playing with the laces of his shoes. His face was streaked with dirt and his fingernails caked with mud, but he wasn't hurt or bleeding, didn't have any broken skin or bruises or cuts or scrapes.

Dean slammed a cabinet door and said, "Set the table. It's your turn."

~

They leave Dot a tip of fifty-seven cents for her stellar service and cross the interstate to a motel that advertises rooms for $29.99 a night.

The room is cold and the heater isn't really up to the task of fighting off the winter chill. Dean drops his bag on the floor and throws himself facedown on the bed, exhaustion falling over him like a heavy blanket. His head hurts like hell and he's thinking he'll be perfectly happy not moving until morning.

"I'm going to take a shower."

Dean props himself up on his elbows and turns his head toward Sam. Sam looks far worse than Dean feels: a line of bruises around his neck from where that sick freak tried to choke him, a cut at his hairline from their very own tire iron, a nice collage of bruises and scrapes decorating his face and arms.

"You alright?"

Sam pauses with his hand on the bathroom door and looks at Dean in surprise. "Yeah, fine. Just tired."

"'Cause you look like shit."

"Wow, thanks. That means a lot."

Dean sits up and swings his legs off the bed. "Really, Sam, how's your head?"

"Fine." Sam sounds just a little bit annoyed, but not enough to retreat into the bathroom and shut the door. "Besides, I'm not the one who died yesterday."

"Yeah, well, it happens to the best of us." Dean pauses, rests his elbows on his knees. "It was good of Becky to feed that bullshit story to the cops. She's -- she must be a good friend."

He glances up, not really expecting an answer. Sam is leaning in the bathroom doorway, swinging the door back and forth on its hinges. It squeaks a little with each swing -- _creak, creak, creak_ \-- a tiny noise but one that could get damn annoying in a few minutes.

"She was Jess's friend first," Sam says. He takes a step into the bathroom, and Dean can't see his face anymore. His voice is muffled when he adds, "That's how I met her."

Sam shuts the door, and a moment later Dean hears the shower turn on. He pulls off his jacket and tosses it aside, reaches down to take off his boots. He takes his wallet out of his pocket but hesitates before setting it on the nightstand. There isn't much in it: couple of twenties, a few tattered business cards and old receipts, picture of his family from when Sammy was just about two months old, credit cards in a variety of names and about half a dozen fake IDs.

And, of course, his real driver's license.

Dean holds it up, examining it in the weak light from the wall lamp. It's a shitty picture, makes him look like the misbegotten offspring of Frankenstein's monster and a deranged chimpanzee who stuck its finger in a socket just as the cameraman said, "Smile!" The address is an abandoned warehouse in Topeka; the height and weight are numbers he pulled out of his ass when that cute chick at the DMV with the red lips and the lacy bra leaned on the counter and said she loved guys with green eyes.

He falls back on the bed, tries to find a comfortable position on the pathetic little pillow, closes his eyes. He holds the license in his left hand, rubbing his thumb along the rough laminated edges, and makes a fist with his right hand. He can feel the pinch of the ring on his finger, the friction of the calluses he's had so long he doesn't even notice them anymore, the pressure of his fingernails digging into his palm. His amulet is a soft but unmistakable weight on his chest; his flannel shirt is warm, soft, worn cuffs brushing his wrists, familiar scent reassuring him when he inhales. He concentrates for several moments, allowing the sound of the shower to lull him. He almost thinks he can hear his heart beating, feel the blood flowing through his veins.

Or maybe not.

Dean tosses the license aside, rolls over, throws his arm over his face to block the light.

~

Sam had been gone for six months when Dean and Dad found themselves in eastern Montana, looking into a series of possessions jumping from town to town across the wide, empty plains. Local authorities were clueless, just thought it was a bunch of teenage vandals busting up windmills, irrigation lines, sprinkler systems, and water treatment plants, accidentally-on-purpose capping a few unlucky ranchers and handymen in the process.

"It's jumping from person to person," Dad said, tapping his beer bottle thoughtfully on the table. They were in a bar in a shithole town a couple hours northeast of Billings, Dad's journal and a mess of newspaper clippings spread on the table between them. "Using whoever's convenient to do the most damage."

"Makes sense," Dean agreed.

"No, Dean, it doesn't make sense," Dad snapped. He flipped a few pages in his journal and frowned at the scribbled notes. "Vandalism? Why the hell would a demon or spirit go around vandalizing windmills and sprinklers, of all fucking things?"

Dean stared out the window and watched the bitter winter wind chase scattered trash and wisps of snow down the empty street. It was only mid-afternoon but the place looked like a ghost town, half the stores boarded up and nothing but a few rusted-out pickups parked along the curb.

He took a sip of his beer. "Maybe it's a djinn, or something like it."

Dad looked at him in confusion. "Djinn?"

"Yeah. I mean, with the water, it makes sense, doesn't it?"

"You lost me, son." Dad looked skeptical and a little impatient. He was looking around the bar, his eyes skipping over the waitress, the bartender, all the other customers. It was the most crowded place in town, full of hard drinkers and harder looks, but Dean knew Dad was scoping out which of them to approach, who would have the most information, who would be willing to talk.

Dean bit his lip before answering, trying to figure out how to make a hunch sound like a plausible theory. "It's going after the water. Which sucks and all, 'cause it doesn't rain much around here, but it really ain't doing all that much damage. Nothing that people can't fix, anyway. But... well, it could be, couldn't it? If it was in a place where a few broken pipes meant the difference between life and death. Like in the desert, back before modern utilities."

Dad didn't answer right away. When he did, he was shaking his head slowly. "Not all djinn--"

"Are evil. I know," Dean interrupted, slouching down in his seat. "You got any better ideas?"

Dad raised one eyebrow.

"Sir."

With a sigh, Dad shook his head. "I don't know, kiddo. What made you think of djinn?"

Picking at the label on his beer bottle, Dean thought about the library at Pastor Jim's house. He thought about the the dictionary that weighed a ton sitting open on its own stand, about Jim standing over it with a smile on his face that was almost proud, Sammy drawing a picture in his childish hand and explaining about water tables and irrigation, how the tunnels were carved in solid rock by men who crawled on their hands and knees, armed with nothing but a hammer and a chisel, for miles and miles in the dark. _In the Middle East. Persia. Arabia. We learned about it in social studies_, Sammy had said, carefully adding up the points on the notepad and trying unsuccessfully not to grin when Jim sat down across from him again.

"Scrabble," Dean said.

"What?"

But bringing up Sam sounded too much like an accusation, so Dean only shrugged. "Never mind."

Dad was quiet for a long time. Somebody switched on the television over the bar, and the noise of a football game filled the room. Dad drained his beer and looked at the bottle for a second, studying the label with an unreadable expression, then stood up and headed over to the bar. Dean watched him chat with the bartender for a few minutes, leaning on the bar like he belonged there, gesturing at the game and joking with the guys parked on the stools.

When Dad came back to the table, he set two bottles on the table and picked up his pen.

"If it is a djinn," he said, turning a few pages in his journal, "this is what we have to do."

~

When Sam comes out of the shower he looks a little more alive. Tired and beat to hell, but when he falls down on his bed the sigh he exhales sounds more like relief than anything else.

"Advil's over there," Dean says, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of his bag on the floor.

"Yeah." Sam doesn't move; he sounds half-asleep already.

"So you're not going to tell me?"

"What?" Wary, a little bit, but still sleepy.

"How long it took you to figure out that psycho wasn't me. What tipped you off."

To Dean's surprise, Sam laughs aloud. "You really want to know how I knew?"

Dean turns his head to look at Sam. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"He was a crazy psycho killer," Sam says, "but he wasn't _nearly_ as much of a pain in the ass as you are."

Dean stares at him for a few seconds, then snorts in amusement and rolls onto his back, closes his eyes and exhales slowly. "Whatever, smartass."

He listens to Sam get up, shuffle through the bag for the meds, get some water from the bathroom, turn off the light, settle down again.

"I just knew," Sam says. A yawn interrupts the words, stretches them out slow and lazy. "Seriously, Dean. Thirty seconds with that crazy son of a bitch, and I knew."

This time, Dean believes him.


End file.
